our goodbyes have never been kind
by izadreamer
Summary: "Just go. Leave."


"Just go. Leave."

His voice cracks on the last word, his sorrow and grief once again overpowering his subconscious need to appear resilient. Arago pretends it didn't happen, and spares a brief thought to hope Ewan will as well.

His brother doesn't respond—but then, for some reason Arago doesn't expect him to. His twin stands before him silently, still dressed in that damn police uniform that always itches against Arago's shoulders and pulls tight at awkward angles. He wonders how Ewan wore it for as long as he did.

He wonders as well at his brother's appearance—disheveled hair, cracked glasses, and scuffed shoes. Ewan's eyes are shadowed, his face drawn and pale, and if Arago wasn't so angry, so hurt, he thinks he might have cared.

He doesn't though, because Arago is angry, the sort of anger that brings tears to his eyes and makes his chest hurt, that steals away his breath and leaves his body trembling with the intensity of it. He's sad too, if sad is enough describe the deep pit gnawing at his heart, that crushes his throat and swallows him whole.

"Didn't you hear me?" he spits out, and hates how the tears burn hot against his eyes, how they threaten to fall at any moment, and therefore reveal just how much this affects him. "I said leave!"

There's no response, just empty eyes and silence, and somehow that's worse than any answer Ewan might give. Seven years is a long time, the gap between adulthood and childhood even greater, but Ewan hasn't changed all that much. Arago knows his brother like the back of his hand, knows his dislikes and his fears and how Ewan hates pressure and loves being right.

Even now, after all these years, Ewan is like an open book to him—the slump in his shoulders, the way his mouth curls down just so, and the slight tilt of his head, just enough for his bangs to brush over his eyes—and Arago can see the sadness written in his form like words on a page, and he can see pity there, as well.

The anger overrides his grief for a brief, blinding moment; a surging wave of burning animosity washing through him, setting his mind alight and driving him forward. Arago shoves Ewan, hard enough to send the other stumbling back before those awful scuffed shoes slip on the earth and send Ewan crashing to the ground. His twin stays there, lying flat on the earth like a broken doll, not a single sound escaping from his lips.

"Go away!" Arago screams, and he means it to sound angry, he really does, except his voice breaks and his eyes burn and it just comes out broken instead.

He's so focused on Ewan he almost doesn't notice the world shifting, the pale greens and light blues of the valley fading away to dark walls and dim lighting. The tranquil silence of the world gains a sinister quality, a dark shadow that looms over him.

What Arago does see is this—Ewan finally lifting his head to look back up at him, a small smile on his face. A smile only Ewan can make, a smile that is soft, proud, and exasperated all at once.

It takes only a moment, and then his smile _twists_. It stretches across his face almost painfully, exposing all his teeth and pulling back his cheeks. His eyes open wide, a sinister light gleaming in them that is foreign and so very wrong. It's not Arago's twin, not his other half. It's not Ewan.

"Don't worry," Ewan says, but it's not Ewan anymore, it's Patchman, Patchman's voice and his smile and his mocking little echo of laughter behind every word; Patchman wearing Ewan's face. Arago feels sick, his stomach lurching at the sight and bile rising in his throat as he stumbles back.

"Don't worry," Not-Ewan repeats, and slowly pushes to their feet, that too-wide gaze never straying away from him. "I'm already gone, _Ar-a-go_."

They draw out his name in a singsong little whisper, mocking and cruel as they watch their words do more harm any weapon ever could. The smile remains frozen on their face, almost demonic in the dim lighting.

Arago flinches, drawing away from the imposter, shaking his head in denial even as Not-Ewan advances, even as the other whispers sweetly, "You made sure of that, hmm?"

"No," Arago chokes out, and his words are breathy and desperate and broken all, with too much emotion for only words to contain. "No, Ewan, I didn't—"

Not-Ewan giggles, limping closer. Their smile is strained now, almost painful to look at. The sight is the equivalent of a knife being driven through Arago's chest, forged from words and accusations and Patchman's smile on Ewan's face.

Every step the other takes brings changes—cuts slicing down their cheeks, dirt clinging to their hair. Their clothes change and tear, blood dripping from the wounds. With every step Not-Ewan takes, their arm seems to crumble, turning to ash and blowing away until there's no arm left at all.

Arago clutches his own arm—Ewan's arm, Ewan's hand, Ewan's scar—and can feel the burn that spears through it, a sharp blinding pain that almost drives him to his knees. Tears leak from his eyes, but Arago can no longer tell if they are from pain or grief.

Not-Ewan speaks again, and now Arago can hear his brother—can hear Ewan's voice rising alongside Patchman's lilting tones, their words intermingled. It's a wonder he can tell them apart at all.

"That's my life," Ewan whispers, his remaining hand, scrapped and bruised and still dripping with blood, reaching out for Arago. "That's my life, isn't it?"

Arago's heart pounds loud in his ears, and he can hardly force the words past the lump in his throat. "Ewan, please—"

"That's _my_ life," Ewan hisses, and now tears fall from his own eyes, that stare at Arago from behind the wireframes, hurt and betrayed. "Why do you have it?"

He stops suddenly, and the smile falls away, replaced by an empty and accusing look that hurts more than the smile ever did. There's no trust in those eyes, no life at all—and why would there be? Arago has stolen all of Ewan's life away.

"Why are you wasting it?" Ewan asks, voice cracking and Arago stops, breath stilling and face paling in terror at those words. He can remember clearly the warmth of Ewan's blood as he wasted away, the raw sting of his newly attached arm, and the roughness in his brother's voice as he'd whispered, _I give you my life, Arago. Don't waste it._

Don't waste it.

Arago looks up, and stops running from Ewan, stands still and watches mutely as he approaches. When Ewan asks again, his voice still containing an echo of Patchman behind every syllable, all Arago can do is close his eyes tight and shake from repressed sobs.

"Why are you wasting my life?"

"I'm sorry," Arago whispers, and the last thing he feels is Ewan's hand, chilled by the icy hand of death, touch his chest, nails dug in and reaching for his heart.

He wakes up screaming, his throat raw and his sweat freezing in the icy midnight air. The tears are uncomfortably warm against his chilled cheeks, the sheets twisted around his body in a vice-like grip. His window casts long shadows against his floor, and Arago turns his head away from it, burying his face in his tear-soaked pillow and trying desperately to calm his breathing.

When he closes his eyes, he can still see Ewan's own, the shadow of Patchman lurking beneath his gaze, and the pain and misery that had been clear to see.

Arago has always been able to read his brother like a book, and for the first time he wishes otherwise. He will give anything if only to forget the betrayal he found there. He curls in the blankets and refuses to move until the afterimages fade from his sight, until he can almost fool himself into believing he's recovered from the dream.

And yet when he finally drops back into his bed, edging closer and closer to sleep, the words linger still, accusing and unkind. Because it's not a dream at all, or if it is, it is dream based on a memory.

"Ewan," he whispers into the night. "I'll find you, Ewan. I'll save you."

It's been years since that day. Since that final battle. Arago's saved Seth, and now he's going to save his brother too—no matter how long it takes.

"I won't waste this life you've given me," Arago swears, and this time when he closes his eyes, he does not dream.

* * *

 _A/N: Originally posted on_ tumblr _a few years back. Fixed it up a bit and moved it here too. Thoughts?_


End file.
